garlic smell is coming from shrimp.” Monique tip-tapped her way through the plate with a knife or a fork, and Becky held
her hand back until Monique was done exploring. “And there’s some kind of…I don’t know. I guess it’s chutney? It’s got a sweet-onion
sort of flavor.”
Judy murmured, “I think this is an olive. I never really knew how much olives felt like slimy little eyeballs.”
“Yup. They’re definitely olives,” Becky said, popping a slimy orb into her mouth. “I’d guess green ones, Judy, pitted with
pimento.”
Monique spoke around a mouthful of something. “When you can’t see it, it even tastes different.”
Becky then bit into a plump, greasy bit of shrimp, listening to her friends chatter. She didn’t need light or eyesight to
know what her girlfriends looked like right now. She’d eaten so many meals with them that she knew Judy was digging in with
gusto, using her fingers without hesitation. She’d be chewing with enthusiasm and finishing everything on her plate. Monique,
on the other hand, was struggling to use her silverware. Monique would prefer to slice up the shrimp and then spear each individual
piece, chewing thoroughly before picking up the next, and Becky suspected it might take a course or two before Monique finally
gave it up to eat with her fingers.
Becky’s throat grew taut. When her eyesight faded to nothing, this feast of sound and smell was what dinner would always be
like. The three of them would be old ladies catching the early bird special at the local diner, but in her mind’s eye Monique
and Judy would always be the vibrant middle-aged women they were right now.
Only their voices would age.
“So,” Monique said, as she did something with her fork, a low, scraping sound. “How are you managing, Becky?”
Becky forced words out of her throat. “Just peachy.”
“This isn’t freaking you out?”
“No.” She winced. In the dark she could hear the wobble in the word. She hoped her friends couldn’t. “This place is just like
a romantic Saturday night dinner at Epernay.”
Monique laughed. Epernay was a fi-fi little French bistro in their hometown. “At Epernay there are candles on the tables.
You can see what you’re eating.”
“Well, you can see what you’re eating.” She rolled the wineglass under her nose, breathing in the perfume of the fruity white, as an
excuse to take a long, deep breath. “I should tip extra every time Marco and I go there, just to cover the cost of cleaning
those lovely linen tablecloths.”
“So is that what this is all about? You’re evening the odds?”
“At least here I’m not the only one making an ass of myself.” As if to punctuate her comment, somewhere deep in the room a
glass clattered over. “And maybe, after an evening in mutual darkness, you’ll see how well I manage. Then you’ll both stop
treating me like I’m going to stride off a bridge and drown in some canal.”
Monique sputtered, the sound echoing, as if she did it from within the bowl of her wineglass. “That’s a little harsh.”
Becky set her glass on the table. “Truth hurts.”
“Listen.” Monique shifted in her seat. Becky knew because the action made the table shake. “I know we’ve been a little overprotective.”
“You’ve both been smothering me.”
“Well, frankly, in the past thirty-six hours I’ve seen you trip over more things than I’ve seen you trip over in the last
four years.”
A slow heat prickled across her skin. Becky had a new reason to be grateful for the darkness. Her fingertips grazed the point
on her thigh where she’d bumped into the sharp edge of a planter at Heathrow. A throbbing began on her foot, where she’d miscalculated
the size of a man’s trailing luggage. Her shoulder ached from where she’d taken two full-body blows into commuters rushing
across her path. And she’d already broken into her pack of emergency Band-Aids to hide the cut
her hand back until Monique was done exploring. “And there’s some kind of…I don’t know. I guess it’s chutney? It’s got a sweet-onion
sort of flavor.”
Judy murmured, “I think this is an olive. I never really knew how much olives felt like slimy little eyeballs.”
“Yup. They’re definitely olives,” Becky said, popping a slimy orb into her mouth. “I’d guess green ones, Judy, pitted with
pimento.”
Monique spoke around a mouthful of something. “When you can’t see it, it even tastes different.”
Becky then bit into a plump, greasy bit of shrimp, listening to her friends chatter. She didn’t need light or eyesight to
know what her girlfriends looked like right now. She’d eaten so many meals with them that she knew Judy was digging in with
gusto, using her fingers without hesitation. She’d be chewing with enthusiasm and finishing everything on her plate. Monique,
on the other hand, was struggling to use her silverware. Monique would prefer to slice up the shrimp and then spear each individual
piece, chewing thoroughly before picking up the next, and Becky suspected it might take a course or two before Monique finally
gave it up to eat with her fingers.
Becky’s throat grew taut. When her eyesight faded to nothing, this feast of sound and smell was what dinner would always be
like. The three of them would be old ladies catching the early bird special at the local diner, but in her mind’s eye Monique
and Judy would always be the vibrant middle-aged women they were right now.
Only their voices would age.
“So,” Monique said, as she did something with her fork, a low, scraping sound. “How are you managing, Becky?”
Becky forced words out of her throat. “Just peachy.”
“This isn’t freaking you out?”
“No.” She winced. In the dark she could hear the wobble in the word. She hoped her friends couldn’t. “This place is just like
a romantic Saturday night dinner at Epernay.”
Monique laughed. Epernay was a fi-fi little French bistro in their hometown. “At Epernay there are candles on the tables.
You can see what you’re eating.”
“Well, you can see what you’re eating.” She rolled the wineglass under her nose, breathing in the perfume of the fruity white, as an
excuse to take a long, deep breath. “I should tip extra every time Marco and I go there, just to cover the cost of cleaning
those lovely linen tablecloths.”
“So is that what this is all about? You’re evening the odds?”
“At least here I’m not the only one making an ass of myself.” As if to punctuate her comment, somewhere deep in the room a
glass clattered over. “And maybe, after an evening in mutual darkness, you’ll see how well I manage. Then you’ll both stop
treating me like I’m going to stride off a bridge and drown in some canal.”
Monique sputtered, the sound echoing, as if she did it from within the bowl of her wineglass. “That’s a little harsh.”
Becky set her glass on the table. “Truth hurts.”
“Listen.” Monique shifted in her seat. Becky knew because the action made the table shake. “I know we’ve been a little overprotective.”
“You’ve both been smothering me.”
“Well, frankly, in the past thirty-six hours I’ve seen you trip over more things than I’ve seen you trip over in the last
four years.”
A slow heat prickled across her skin. Becky had a new reason to be grateful for the darkness. Her fingertips grazed the point
on her thigh where she’d bumped into the sharp edge of a planter at Heathrow. A throbbing began on her foot, where she’d miscalculated
the size of a man’s trailing luggage. Her shoulder ached from where she’d taken two full-body blows into commuters rushing
across her path. And she’d already broken into her pack of emergency Band-Aids to hide the cut